by Anne Mather
“It’s never too late,” said Sir Paul steadily. “You say you love Matt. Go to him. Tell him so. Convince him that what I did I did from the best motives. Make his life bearable again.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because—because morally I’m responsible for Celine’s death, can’t you see that?”
“You’re morally responsible…” Now it was Sir Paul’s turn to look confused. “Forgive me, my dear, but I don’t understand you. Celine died from a haemorrhage resulting from a miscarriage. She fell down the stairs at the house. Matt wasn’t even there at the time. She fell, she wasn’t pushed. What possible connection can that have with you?”
Darrell got to her feet now, pacing restlessly across to the window. “I’m not without blame,” she insisted dully. “The night—the night that—that Matt’s sister was buried, Susan, he came to my flat. I—I was nursing in Sedgeley then. That’s how I got to know him—at Susan’s wedding.”
“I know that.”
“Well, that night, the night after Susan’s funeral, Matt came to the flat. He—we—we were attracted to one another…”
“You made love?”
“No! No, I wish we had.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—I led Matt on. I let him think I would—that we could—” She twisted her hands together. “He left me in a terrible state. He was furious—furious with me for leading him on and letting him down. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. He drove straight back to London. He was in the office at four that morning.”
“Four a.m.!” Darrell took a step towards him and halted. “Four a.m.! Are you sure?”
“I should be. I spoke to him.” He paused. “I should explain, my apartment is on the top floor of the office building.”
“Then—then—he couldn’t have…” Darrell drew her brows together confusedly, trying to think. “You mean, he came straight to the office—from—from my flat?”
“Judging by his appearance, I would say so. Why?”
Darrell shook her head. “But—but Celine said—” She broke off. “Do—do you know where Celine was—that night?”
“No. But knowing Celine, it would not be in her own bed.”
Darrell pressed her knuckles to her lips. “Oh, God!“
“What is it?” Sir Paul twisted round in his seat to face her. “What did Celine tell you?”
Darrell bent her head. “She—she was pregnant when she died. She—she said it was Matt’s baby. That—that the night after Susan’s funeral, Matt came back and made love to her—”
“And you believed her?” Sir Paul was horrified. He got to his feet. “But didn’t Matt tell you, he—he and Celine didn’t live together?”
“Yes, but—this was something else. And Celine did say it.”
“Oh, Darrell.” He suddenly looked very weary. “How could a daughter of mine go so wrong? Where did I go wrong? I’ve asked myself that so many times.” He looked at her steadily. “Darrell, Celine was more than three months pregnant at the time of her death. And Matthew had just returned from a three-month business trip to the South Pacific for his sister’s wedding.”
Darrell groped her way back to her chair, sinking down into it thankfully, her legs almost giving out on her. Then she looked up at Sir Paul. “So—it couldn’t have been Matt’s child.”
“Could you believe otherwise?” Sir Paul shook his head. “It was the child of a man called Farrell, David Farrell. Celine had been having an affair with him for some months. When she found she was expecting a baby, she went to see him, to ask him to accept responsibility. Funnily enough, she seemed to want the child. Perhaps losing the baby in the crash had given her a complex or something. Anyway, Farrell washed his hands of her, told her to get an abortion. I think that was when she decided to claim Matt as its father. She told me this when she came to see me—when she revealed your involvement in the situation.”
“I’m—I’m surprised she told you.”
“She had to. Matt had already left her, you see.”
“When?”
“Don’t you know? I understand there was quite a scene.”
“Oh, there was, there was!”
“There you are, then.”
“Oh, Sir Paul! What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to Yorkshire, I hope. You’re going to talk some sense into that erstwhile son-in-law of mine. You’re going to bring him back to London, and marry him with my blessing, if that’s what you want.”
“If it’s what I want?” Darrell shook her head. “How do I know Matt will even see me, let alone anything else?”
“Because I know he can’t go on much longer living the way he is doing. You’ll get quite a shock when you see him. He looks pretty haggard. He’s had a rough time, and I feel responsible.”
“So you should.” Darrell had enough spirit left to say this. “And I suppose you have no other motives for bringing him back, have you? Like taking up where he left off?”
Sir Paul nodded. “I admit—we miss him. Galbraiths miss him. But most of all, I want to clear my conscience.”
“How did you find me, Sir Paul?”
“Mrs. Belding found you. Matt’s secretary,” he explained. “A most efficient individual.”
“Yes, so Matt told me.” Darrell rose now. “All right, Sir Paul, I’ll go to Yorkshire. I’ll see Matt. But I’m making no promises about bringing him back here. I’m not at all sure he needs you as much as you need him.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was late afternoon by the time the taxi from Sedgeley deposited Darrell at the foot of the track which led up to Moorfoot Farm. It had been raining, and the track was muddy, and Darrell looked ruefully at her shoes as she climbed out of the vehicle.
“Are you sure this is the place?” she asked the driver doubtfully.
“Moorfoot Farm. Yes, miss. It’s up yon track. You’re going to get those shoes messed up.”
“So it seems. There’s no—road, is there?”
“This is the only way,” replied the taxi driver patiently. “D’you want to go back to Sedgeley and leave it till morning?”
“No.” Darrell shook her head firmly. “No, I must go. Thank you.”
She pushed a note into his hand and waved away his thanks. Then she waited until the taxi had driven away before crossing the road and opening the gate into the field through which the track to the farm seemed to lead. There was no sign of a house at the moment, but she supposed it was hidden by the rise of rough turf that made up the field.
Avoiding the muddiest spots, she made her way up the bank and drew a deep breath when she reached the top and looked down on a narrow valley with a rough-looking dwelling lying at its base. Moorfoot Farm, she thought palpitatingly, and set off to walk a little faster towards it before her courage gave out on her.
Was it only the previous afternoon that Sir Paul Galbraith had been to see her? It seemed a lot longer ago than that. But perhaps that was because the journey north had seemed endless, and she had been so impatient to reach her destination.
Her mother had been non-committal. Obviously Sir Paul’s involvement had impressed her, and she had made no definite objections to Darrell’s affirmation of her intentions. However, she had expressed her opinion that Darrell should not expect too much from this meeting, that Matthew might well turn her away. These were feelings Darrell shared, and as she approached the shabby buildings that made up the farmstead she wondered what she would do if he did reject her. It didn’t bear thinking about.
A man in a rough woollen sweater, stained denim jeans and Wellingtons was bending over a pump in the yard that surrounded the house, directing water into an enamel bucket. He had his back to Darrell, and she could not be sure it was Matthew. Unkempt dark hair lifted in the wind, overly long now, and as he straightened and caught sight of her, her knees went weak. It was Matthew, although she could be forgiven for doubting it. A growth of beard darkened his
jawline, the close-fitting jeans outlined the gauntness of his thighs and hips, and his face was thin and strained. He stared at Darrell as if she was a ghost, and then turned and walked straight into the house, ignoring her.
Trembling a little, Darrell advanced the few yards into the yard and stood hesitantly, waiting for him to come out again. But he didn’t. The door banged depressingly in the wind, and somewhere a cow issued its melancholy lowing with dogged persistence.
Darrell looked all about her. The shadows of evening were lengthening, and it was much colder now that she was standing still. It was a lonely, eerie place, the wind whistling across the open moorland beyond the fells.
Stiffening her shoulders, she went to the banging door and knocked. There was no answer, and half impatiently, she pushed the door open and went inside.
She was in the kitchen of the farmhouse and at least here a fire burned in the grate and there was warmth and light. But apart from that the kitchen was barely furnished. A wooden table and chairs, a shabby velvet armchair by the fire, a rug across the hearth. Cooking was done on a calor gas stove, and the lighting came from a paraffin lamp. Of Matthew there was no sign, and she crossed the room and opened the door at the back which led into a long narrow hall.
Summoning all her courage, she called: “Matt! Matt, I know you’re there. Please come and talk to me.”
Silence. Her lips twitched and she pressed them together. What to do? If Matthew refused to see her, to speak to her, what would she do? Tears of self-pity welled in her eyes. She could always go back to Sedgeley on foot and spend the night with the Lawfords.
But Sedgeley was the best part of five miles away. A long distance at night, and on foot. She came back into the kitchen and looked round. Could she put the kettle on? Make some tea? At least make the effort of civility?
She was reaching for the kettle when a voice behind her said: “What do you want?”
Darrell almost jumped out of her skin and she spun round guiltily, staring at him as if he had just appeared through the floorboards. He must have been washing—and shaving—she thought, a pang of love for him sweeping over her as she saw the jagged cut he had made with his razor on his now clean-shaven chin. He had changed the rough sweater, too, for a fine black woollen shirt, and the jeans for dark suede trousers. He had combed his hair, and she realised that its length was not unattractive. She had the almost overwhelming desire to throw herself into his arms, but something in his grim expression held her back.
“You—you’ve cut yourself,” she said inconsequently, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket and holding it out.
He ignored it, wiping the back of his hand across his chin, smearing the blood carelessly. “I asked what you wanted?” he repeated harshly
Darrell took a deep breath. “That’s rather a pointless question, isn’t it? I mean—I’m hardly here to see the sights, am I?” She controlled the tremor in her voice. “I—I came to find you, as you very well must know.”
“Why?”
“Why?” She raised her eyes heavenward. “Why do you suppose?”
“I don’t know that I care,” he muttered, his nostrils tightening. “But you should have warned me you were coming. I could have saved you the journey.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re wasting your time here, Darrell. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to see anybody, do you understand? Now go away and leave me alone.”
Darrell’s lips parted. “Matt—you don’t mean that—”
“Don’t I? I thought I did.”
“Matt, I have to talk to you…”
“We have nothing to say to one another.”
“Oh, we do, we do!” Darrell caught her breath. “Matt, what have you been doing to yourself? You look so—so—”
“Haggard? I know. I’ve already been told that.”
“Who by?” Darrell paused. “Sir Paul?”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about Sir Paul? Oh, God, no! He didn’t send you here to find me, did he? Oh, I knew he was determined to get me back to London, but I didn’t think even he would resort to this!”
“Matt, listen to me—”
She touched his arm, but he shook her off. “Keep away from me! You’re wasting your time! I’ve told you, I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“Oh, Matt, I made a mistake—”
“Too damn right! Coming here was the biggest mistake you ever made.”
“No… no! Not coming here. About—about Celine’s baby!”
Matthew’s lips twisted. “Are you sure about that? How do you know I wasn’t lying, like you said? What divine revelation has sparked off this sudden belief in me?”
“No divine revelation,” she replied urgently. “Sir Paul told me that—that Celine was three months pregnant when she died, and—and how you were abroad…” She broke off. “Do you honestly believe it was that that kept me away from you?”
Matthew’s face hardened. “I really don’t care —”
“I don’t believe that. Matt, listen to me! You must listen to me! I—I thought—I believed Celine, I admit it. Because—because I had to. That night—that night you left me—I could believe you might have—have—”
“Use her words,” said Matthew bitterly. “That I might have relieved my frustration on her!”
“Well—well, all right. Is that so unreasonable?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I wasn’t to know that.” Darrell quivered. “Matt, I didn’t stay away because of that. I—I could have forgiven you that—”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, Matt, don’t make it so hard for me…” She linked and unlinked her fingers. “It was—it was the other. Celine dying of a—a miscarriage. I—I blamed myself. Can’t you understand that? I—I thought—if I hadn’t stopped you, if—if we had made love—you wouldn’t have—she wouldn’t have been pregnant. Oh, Matt, don’t look at me like that. I’m only human. I—I love you so much. Please—please, believe me! Don’t send me away, don’t send me away…”
And to her ignominy, tears began to roll down her cheeks to splash unheeded on to her pale suede coat. Matthew seemed as far out of reach as ever, and the agony of it all was just too much for her.
With a little sob, she turned and fled towards the door, but he moved quicker and was there before her, blocking her exit. She turned from him, not wanting to see the contempt in his eyes when he looked at her, and then felt his hands on her arms, hard and brutally compelling, but unmistakably drawing her back against him. There was a moment when she resisted, when she half thought this was some new way he had thought of hurting her, but when her body touched his, she knew he was as emotionally aroused as she was.
With a groan, he tore the buttons of the coat open, and tugged it off her shoulders to fall unheeded to the floor. Then he twisted her round in his arms and his hungry mouth fastened on hers. There was blood on her lips from the cut which was still bleeding just above his jawline, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but being there in his arms, feeling his taut body straining against hers, opening her mouth beneath his and allowing him to explore the sweetness inside. His fingers slid beneath her sweater as he unfastened his shirt and brought her soft skin into contact with the rough hardness of his chest.
“Oh, Matt,” she breathed, against his neck, “hold me closer, never let me go!”
“You’re crazy coming here, do you know that?” he demanded against her mouth. “How the hell am I supposed to let you go?”
“I don’t want you to.”
“No, but dammit, I have to,” he swore violently, and dragged himself away from her. Darrell made no attempt to straighten her clothes and Matthew, looking back at her over his shoulder, swore again. “For God’s sake, Darrell,” he muttered, “stop tormenting me! You may have expunged your guilt so far as Celine is concerned, but I haven’t.”
“What do you mean?” Darrell slowly pulled down her sweater, aware of her breasts pulsing
with the life Matthew had pressed into them.
“Oh, God, Darrell, if I had never crashed that car and Celine had had the baby, she might not now be dead!”
“And—and would you have wanted her?”
Matthew raked a hand over his hair. “Oh, I can’t answer that. I don’t know. I tell myself I’d have forgotten about—about the drugs, but I don’t know whether I could. But—if she’d had a baby…”
“It might have made no difference.”
“I know that. That’s what I tell myself in my more lucid moments.” He nodded to the half empty bottle of whisky occupying a corner of the hearth. “Did you notice that? I never knew that so much whisky could provide so little oblivion.”
“Oh, Matt!” Darrell went towards him urgently. “Matt, there’s something you don’t know.”
“Yes, I do. Sir Paul told me. Celine was never injured in that way that prevented her from having children. He had to tell me that after—after—”
“Was that all he told you?”
“What else is there?”
Darrell stretched out a hand and touched the bloody cut on his cheek, drawing back her fingers to lick them deliberately. Matthew, watching her, was stiff and controlled.
“For God’s sake, Darrell,” he muttered. “What else is there?”
Darrell went close to him so that her body was almost touching his, and she had to tip back her head to look up at him. “You were not driving the car the night it crashed. That was Celine.”
“What?” Matthew stared at her disbelievingly. “You’re not serious!”
“I am. I expect if you probe deeply enough you could prove it, but there’s really no need. Sir Paul knows the truth. It was he who suppressed it—for Celine’s sake.”
Matthew’s hands gripped her forearms. “You mean—she was responsible…”
“Yes, yes!” Darrell was laughing and crying all at once at the unashamed relief in his face.
“Oh, Darrell! Darrell!” He caught her close to him then, burying his face in her neck and uttering sounds of pleasure and relief. “Oh, God! I can’t believe it.”
